The Small Things

Somehow I know you will soften.

The impossibly tiny, ragged creature in the gutter is shivering in the thickening sleet, its fur soaked through and caked with mud. Merlin knows what breed it is. Some sort of mutt by all appearances, but it’s you that it seems to have sought out, your shoe it paws at feebly, huge brown eyes staring pleadingly up into your black ones.

For the briefest of moments I think that you mean to ignore it, to just walk on by, but you stop, and glare down your nose at it. It blinks back, whining piteously. “Well what do you want?” you inquire quite seriously – a tad short, as though irritated at being detained unnecessarily in such inclement weather.

A small whimper is the only reply you get.

It is so thin. I can count its ribs one by one beneath the tightly stretched hide, and its eyes look slightly glazed as though it is very close to the sort of starvation that is irreversible.

“Well…?” You inquire again, as though it might magically begin to speak.

“Severus, unless it’s an Animagus I don’t think you are going to get much of a reply.”

You don’t seem to hear me.

You and the pathetically neglected creature observe one another. After some time you seem to come to some sort of unspoken understanding, and without another word, you reach down, scoop the pup up and tuck it beneath your coat. We continue on to the flat as though nothing’s happened.

“Well, you’ve most likely ruined your jumper, you know…” I offer.

“It looks underfed.”

“It looks a sight more than underfed. It looks nearly starved to death. It’s not very old I wager. Probably got separated from its mother somehow.”

“What…what do dogs this young eat?”

“This young? Mother’s milk probably, but we don’t have that. Best to contact the veterinarian. I think there’s one just off High Street. I’ll get the number when we get in.”

In the end you end up tramping back out into the damp dusk to pick up some sort of formula from the vet. I am left alone with the pup. I bathe it. Somehow it manages to still find the energy to make some sort of strange sound I suspect might be an attempt at a growl. I am just finishing up when you return.

“You’re doing it wrong!” you snap.

“How exactly does one bathe a puppy ‘wrong’?”

“You’ll get soap in its eyes. You’re not supposed to use that.” You point to the bottle of Boots brand shampoo you use.

“Well then what am I supposed to use?”

“This.” You pull out a bottle of some golden elixir, a picture of a fat and happy lab pup cavorting in some mountain meadow emblazoned across the label on the front.

“What’s the difference?”

“It won’t burn his eyes.”

“How do you know it’s a male? It might just as well be a female for all the look we got.” I pick it up and flip it over. “Oh, well yes, you’re right…”

You are glowering at me. Apparently you don’t appreciate my man handling of the creature. “Wrap it up in something before it catches its death, and bring it out to the fire. It needs to be fed.”

You turn on your heel and disappear down the hall. I can hear the crinkle of brown paper sacks in the kitchen, and then the running of water. I turn my attention back to the creature in my hands. It is squirming wildly. I flip it back onto its belly and stare at it. It stares venomously back. How on earth does a puppy look venomous, I wonder?

When I get to the sitting room and sit down by the fire the creature starts to look drowsy in seconds. Now that it is clean it is somewhat better looking. You appear in the doorway, an apron tied around your waist, a tiny bottle in one hand. I laugh out loud.

“Don’t say it.”

I do my best to stifle my laughter. “What? I’ve not said a thing...”

“Well see that you don’t.”

You nod toward the tiny bundle in my hand. “Here then. Give it to me. It’s supposed to feed every two hours. Small amounts at first.”

I get up from the chair and hand the pup over. You are amazingly gentle with it. I only caught a glimpse of your hand before it shot beneath your coat back on the street, but now I am free to watch, and I do. The creature seems to suffer you in a way that it wouldn’t me, and it takes to the tiny bottle with abandon, little bits of formula dripping down its chin. You wipe it away with the corner of the towel at small intervals.

I’m mesmerized at the sight of those long, thin fingers cradling the little creature so tenderly, occasionally trailing over the dark fur on its head almost unconsciously. It is moments like these when I see the beauty that so many others have always seemed to miss.

“We’re keeping it, I assume. Have you thought of a name?”

You don’t reply, so I continue to watch you. You wanted a dog desperately as a boy, but were smart enough not to ask. One more mouth to feed. One mouth too many. I wonder if you even remember telling me that, that one Christmas Eve at the pub. You’d had more than one too many.

“What would we do with a dog? Ridiculously inconvenient. Impossible. We’ll nurse it, and then place an ad.”

I am fairly certain there will be no ad, but I hold my peace.

It’s good to see you happy.